


Barely Fourteen

by AuroraRebellion



Category: Fire Emblem: Shin Ankoku Ryuu to Hikari no Ken | Fire Emblem: Shadow Dragon
Genre: Angst? Check. Young Lord losing things important to him? Come on this is Fire Emblem, Basically this story takes canon and explores a scene or two in the middle, Elice appears but not enough to tag whoops, Frey is the Decoy, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Malledus has good ideas but terrible methods when Marth is concerned, Marth is 13 when the story starts, but violence does happen, not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-19 13:16:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14874444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraRebellion/pseuds/AuroraRebellion
Summary: He's turning fourteen in ten days, and a former ally wants him dead.He's barely fourteen, and what Altea needs is a strong leader; something he can't be, not yet.-A novelization of Prologues 1-4 in Fire Emblem: Shadow Dragon.





	1. Dumped and Shattered

He’s thirteen, and going to be fourteen in a mere ten days. Elice is going to teach him how to ride on a horse, and Jagen seems to be planning an outing to the village nearby. He’s a little excited- more than a little excited, really, he's very excited.  
He wishes Cain could be here, and Merric, but they're both away for different reasons.  
Father isn't here, either, but he’s slightly less sad about that for reasons he can't ever admit.  
“Did you know I'm going to be fourteen soon?” He asks the little bird on the windowsill. It cocks its head at him, and its throat moves as it lets out a little peep.  
“My sister Elice and I will be going horseback riding. I'm going to get to ride my own horse!”  
The bird peeps again, and hops a little closer, curiously pecking at his hand as he holds it out.  
“I’m sure horses aren't near so interesting for someone who can fly, but I'm excited,” he tells the bird. “And maybe someday, once I'm good at riding on a horse, I will fly, on a pegasus. Maybe you and I will fly together.”  
The bird peeps again, and begins preening itself. It’s small and white and looks like a large piece of cotton stuffing given wings.  
Someone knocks on the door, and he jumps. The little bird flies away at the noise and movement, which is unfortunate, but he's sure it will come back eventually.  
“Prince Marth, are you awake?”  
...It’s very early in the morning for anyone to be knocking on his door, he realizes. The sun is barely brightening the horizon, which means this is important. He gets up and opens the door. It’s a knight- he thinks their name is Kace? He’s fairly certain it’s Kace, but regardless the knight is serious, with a quiet intensity that makes him worry that they bear bad news.  
“Beggin’ your pardon, sire, but the princess has asked to see you,” they say. Bad news, and related to Elice-  
“Elice? Is she alright?” He asks. The knight grimaces in what seems to be uncertainty.  
“Seemed to be, sire, but her words implied a certain urgency. She bade you dress quickly and wait by the throne.”  
“Has something happened?”  
“It’s our forces off in Gra, sire. There seems to’ve been some sort of incident, but… Well, I’m not privy to the specifics.”  
An incident, something important, something Elice wants to tell him in person as soon as possible, related to Gra- Gra, where Father is off fighting.  
...He realizes the knight is still there, and that the knight is waiting for him to reply.  
“...I- I see,” he stammers. “Thank you. I’ll be there shortly.”  
The knight bows, and hurries off, presumably to relay the message to Elice.  
Hopefully, whatever news Elice has, it’s good, especially if it concerns Father… He can’t help but fear it won't be, though.  
The castle halls are quiet, as expected for this early in the morning… except for footsteps, someone running, accompanied by the sound of clinking armor.  
“O’er there! It’s prince Marth!”  
A knight, dressed in rusty reds and oranges.  
“Wha-” he starts, then catches himself. “I’m sorry- who are you?” He doesn't recognize the soldier’s voice, or his rough accent. It doesn't sound like anything he’s familiar with, whether from the everyday soldiers, or commoners in any village, or even from the generals and the like that he’d met from Gra, the ones who visited to speak with Father.  
“We’re soldiers o’ Gra, li’l prince. If ya know what’s good for ya, you’ll surrender without any trouble.”  
_What?_  
“Sur- surrender? That’s… That’s ridiculous. Why would I surrender to the army of an allied kingdom?”  
The soldier laughs, a growling chuckle in the back of his throat.  
“They don't tell ya much, do they princey? No matter. You’ll ‘ave the fully story soon enough. Now… lay down yer sword.”  
His sword- yes, his rapier is at his hip, and he lays his hand on the hilt.  
“I will not,” he says, using the voice he learned to use for addressing his subjects. “I am the prince of Altea, and I will not yield to you, or- any other nation, here on my own land, under my own castle roof!”  
He stands as tall as he can, glaring at the soldier. He feels pretty authoritative, telling this unknown soldier where he stands.  
The soldier laughs again, though.  
“Heh. You talk pretty big, li’l brat. If you won't lay down your sword, I’ll just have to take your life instead!”  
The soldier draws his sword with a battle cry, and he leaps back, pulling his rapier from its sheath. This- this soldier is from Gra, an allied nation, why is he attacking? What’s going on? Is it a deserter? An enemy trying to cause strife by posing as the ally?  
He doesn't have time to worry more, because the soldier lunges, swinging his sword in a broad path. It’s not hard to avoid, he’s had far more skilled opponents while training, but what is he supposed to do? Is- is he supposed to attack? Aim to… aim to harm?  
The soldier is shouting, striking again, and he blocks it with his own sword.  
...The thin blade warps with the impact, and he has to give with it, letting the blow knock him back. This isn't good, where are the guards? Where are his knights? Where’s Jagen?  
He can't just dodge forever, he knows, but what is he supposed to do?  
The sword whistles past his ear, and he winces as it knicks his arm, tearing the cloth. He takes a jab, but it hits the soldier’s breastplate.  
“Ey! The little brat is fighting back!” The soldier calls, to- to someone else. Another soldier, who is headed towards the throne room.  
_Elice is in the throne room_.  
“No!” He cries, and tries to push past the soldier. The soldier grabs his arm, and he turns, striking once more.  
It's not the sound of metal hitting armor that rings in his ears, this time, and the man crumples.  
He doesn't have time to consider the red his rapier’s blade has turned as he runs towards the throne room.  
Another knight steps forward, and this one is more skilled, better at aiming. The blade of the sword slams through the air inches above his head as he ducks, stumbling beneath the knight’s reach.  
This knight, too, collapses. His sleeves are red, but he has more important things to think about as his back hits the floor and he wrenches his sword free.  
One more soldier, who holds a sword shinier and bigger than the others. This one looks important. The leader of the three, he guesses.  
The leader grimaces and steps back, towards the throne room.  
_Stay away stay away Elice is there and she doesn't have a weapon-_  
He swallows, takes a deep breath, and adjusts his grip. This man has better armor, this man will be harder to beat.  
He doesn't have time to consider whether the other two will ever get up again. This man is near the throne room and Elice wanted to meet him at the throne.  
The leader charges forward, sword raised high, and he realizes he’s scared. He’s so much smaller than the enemy, so much weaker-  
He’s going to pretend it’s Jagen. Jagen is bigger and stronger but he’s sparred against Jagen and won before. If this was Jagen-  
He moves too slow, and the tip of the sword slides against his cheek, leaving a thin line of pain.  
- _Jagen wouldn’t hurt him_.  
He recoils, blinking back tears. This isn't Jagen, and he can't pretend it is because Jagen doesn't hurt him, Jagen makes all the pain stop, Jagen makes things better, why isn't Jagen here now?  
The leader isn't giving him time to collect himself, and he’s stumbling back, away from the sword that catches at his clothes.  
He ducks under one last blow, and sees the break between plates of armor.  
There.  
He throws his whole weight behind the blow, driving the blade halfway to the hilt past the armor. The man yells, then goes silent, falling to the side and pulling the rapier, still buried beneath the armor, with him.  
He can't allow himself time to think about it, even as he reaches with shaking hands and pulls the rapier free.  
Elice is in the throne room.  
He runs in just as she steps up to the throne.  
“Elice!” He gasps, “What’s- what’s going on? I- The knight told me you wanted to see me, s-said some-something about Gra? And now- and now there was- intruders- I had to fight-- said they’re from Gra- w-wanted me to surrender?”  
He’s babbling, grip on the hilt of his rapier so tight his hands are near devoid of color underneath the red.  
“Marth! Marth,” she calls, stepping forward and placing her hands on his, “Are you alright? Your tunic is torn, and your cheek…”  
“I’ll- I’ll be alright.” He takes a deep breath, and looks up at Elice, trying to find answers in her solemn eyes.  
“Sister, what is happening?”  
Elice hesitates before answering, and the worry that twists his insides grips him tighter.  
“Steady yourself Marth,” she says. “I have grave news.”  
He nods, and she takes a deep breath.  
“Our father… was defeated, by the Doluna-Grust allied forces.”  
He feared as such, but the ground still drops from under him.  
“What? No…”  
His heart is doing flip-flops inside his chest and he doesn't know why exactly. It- some part of him- it’s- a relief? Father, Father with his grace and strength and anger, is gone. It’s as if his world was on a plate, and someone not only dumped the contents of the plate on the ground, but also threw the plate, shattering it into a million sharp pieces.  
“It was Gra,” Elice is saying, “Our own ally betrayed us and struck Father’s army from the rear. I am…” Elice has to pause, and her hands tighten around his. “I am not sure he is safe. The scouts who returned gave conflicting reports.”  
“Father…” He mumbles. It seems like the only thing to do. Father, strong and fierce and hailed as hero throughout Altea… Father, flawed but doing his best… “It can't be…”  
Elice nods, stepping back. His hands feel cold without hers there.  
“As we speak, soldiers sent by Gra are trying to take the castle. Mother and I- we were separated during the escape. I don't… I do not know where she is.”  
Elice is shaking. He realizes Elice, his dear big sister, is also scared and confused. Her world was also overturned and shattered, just like his.  
“Marth,” she calls, and he jumps. The world around him focuses, and he wonders how long he’s been in his own thoughts. “I… I need you to listen to me. You must flee the castle. Go on without me.”  
Go- without Elice?  
“What?” He asks. He can't even imagine-  
“We’ve not many soldiers left… I know this is hard to bear, but the castle is lost. We must face that.”  
He wants to cry, but he blinks the tears back and nods.  
“I will go look for Mother and join you as soon as I can. You go find Jagen and get away from here- far away. Understand?”  
He doesn't want to understand, but he does.  
“...Alright. But promise you won't be long.”  
Elice smiles- she looks so sad- and pulls him close into her arms.  
For a moment, he feels as if the bad news could be a dream, a nightmare. What could be wrong, when Elice is there, warm and smelling of spring?  
But she steps back, and he knows it isn't. The world is still shattered.  
“Stay safe, Marth,” Elice says. He nods, and sheaths his sword, before running to find Jagen.  
Behind him, Elice is mumbling something. He assumes it’s a prayer to Naga. They need all the prayer they can get, now.  
...Where would Jagen be at this moment...?


	2. At the Gates

He turns a corner, and barrels into armor. The person wearing the armor stumbles back, shouting in surprise, and he also recoils, drawing his sword again.  
“Hold, sire!”  
The- it’s blue. Blue armor and blue hair. Behind him is someone in green. Two knights.  
“Frey! Abel!” He shouts, sheathing his sword again. “You’re alive!”  
He’s so glad, at least they're alright in this chaos.  
“Yes, sire,” Abel says. “Princess Elice bade us protect you. Sir Malledus stayed behind to accompany her.”  
Malledus- Malledus, one of the people on Father’s council. He’s glad Elice isn't alone.  
Frey steps closer, calling attention to himself.  
“Sire, we must be quick. Sir Jagen awaits us at the gates.”  
Jagen is safe as well… He’s so glad to hear it.  
He nods, and steps towards the correct hallway, but pauses when shouting echoes through it. Unfamiliar voices. Beside him, Abel hisses.  
“Blast! This won't do. How did Gra’s forces ever make it this far?”  
The enemy forces… they would have to enter through the gates. The gates let in both enemy and ally alike, and if the enemy has control of the gates, then they can choose who enters, and who-  
“Jagen- Jagen and the others will be caught like mice! We need to seize the gates and secure the area, immediately!”  
Frey nods.  
“Agreed. We’ll need to work quickly… _And_ stealthily. There are far more of the enemy around than there are of us.”  
“Understood!”  
“Alright. Sire?”  
He puts a hand on the hilt of his rapier, and walks down the hallway, Frey and Abel behind him.  
For a while, it’s silent, with only their footsteps. The gates are up ahead. He carefully looks into the area, but then Frey pulls him back.  
“Frey!” He whispers. “What is it?”  
“Archers, sire. If they see you, they could pick you off from afar.”  
Ah, that’s why. He nods.  
Laughter sounds from near the gates, coarse and tinged with that strange accent as someone speaks.  
“Oi, listen up, you lot! Bag the prince! Dead or alive, he’ll fetch us as sweet a reward as the mind can conjure!”  
Bag him- there’s a reward for catching him? There's-  
“Sire!”  
He jumps, and looks up to see the flash of metal in the light, before it’s blocked by the figure of Frey, and metal clashing against metal rings out in the room.  
A soldier with an axe. Frey saved him.  
The soldier growls, trying to force Frey back, but Frey shoves the soldier away, then strikes. The soldier makes an unpleasant gurgling sound, and collapses. Abel pulls him away before he can see anything.  
“‘Ey, speak of the devil! The princey himself and his li’l bodyguards! Men, you know what to do!”  
No no this was going all wrong, what happened to stealth?  
“Abel! For our liege!”  
Abel slams the butt of his spear on the ground, then runs up beside Frey, catching the first soldier in the shoulder with his spear and tossing them aside. Frey dashes forward, cutting down an archer whose bowstring goes slack in their hands.  
And in the back, here he is, doing nothing.  
Within moments, the area is clear of all soldiers except for the ones sprawled out on the floor. Abel carefully steps over them, and holds out a hand.  
He takes it, and allows Abel to guide him. It seems Abel doesn't want him to look down, for some reason…  
Horse hooves sound against stone, and he flinches, reaching for his sword again. Frey holds up a hand though, and he looks to the gates-  
Oh.  
“Jagen!” He cheers, as the old knight dismounts from his horse.  
“Sire,” he greets, “It gladdens me to see you in one piece… It’s not safe for you here; we must be away at once!”  
He nods, and is about to let Jagen help him into the horse’s saddle, when another voice calls out.  
“Prince Marth! Where are you? Answer me, sire!”  
What? He knows that voice… It brings memories of red hair, loud laughter, and gentle instruction.  
“Cain?” He questions. “...That’s Cain!” He squirms away from Jagen, and looks around. “Here I am, Cain!”  
Hoofbeats, and he looks to the source of the noise, to see horse and rider- the rider is dressed in red. He runs to meet them.  
“Cain, you’re supposed to be in Gra! Why have you returned without-” _-that’s not supposed to be red like it is--_ “Yow!” He exclaims. “Those wounds…!”  
Cain just gives him a tired smile as he dismounts.  
“Sire, it’s really you… I feared the worst,” Cain says. “That his message… would go… undeliv- agh…”  
Cain winces, leaning against his horse. He looks tired and pale, out of breath.  
“In that state, I don't know how you even stayed ahorse. Those gashes need to be treated at once—”  
“No sire,” Jagen interrupts. “Not until we’ve escaped. Cain, I trust you can you can put off bleeding to death for just a while longer?”  
Cain nods, pushing away from his horse and giving a sloppy salute to Jagen.  
“Of course, sir… I live to… to please.”  
He’s worried, beyond worried, but Cain climbs back into the saddle, and he knows protesting will only waste time, time that could rather be spent getting away so Cain can rest.  
He lets Jagen help him up into the saddle, then moves so Jagen himself can climb up behind him.  
Frey and Abel must have had their horses outside with Jagen, for now everyone is in a saddle.  
Jagen clicks his tongue, and his horse begins trotting, leading the rest of them.


	3. Message Bearer

He’s certain he must have dozed off, for he jerks awake just as he’s pulled back upright against Jagen’s breastplate.  
“Mm-! Wh- I didn’...”  
“Fear not, lord Marth,” Jagen soothes. “Everything is quiet.”  
“Mm. We there…?”  
“Yes, in fact.”  
Jagen tugs at the reins, then motions to the rest of the group to stop.  
Cain sighs, slumping forward in the saddle, and he feels awful for falling asleep as worry floods through him again.  
“Cain, how are your wounds?” He asks. “You should rest…”  
“These scratches?” Cain grins. “It's my _pride_ you're wounding, sire.”  
Well, at least he’s feeling well enough to joke. Perhaps he was just out of breath earlier, though he still looks pale.  
“Anyways, sire, we must talk…” Cain becomes serious now as he climbs out of the saddle. “There’s a reason I’ve returned. Sire, I am…” He pauses, hesitating in a way unlike himself. “I am to deliver to you His Majesty’s last words.”  
Father’s- Father’s _last-?_ The ground pitches for a moment beneath his feet as Jagen sets him down.  
“Last words? You don’t mean… Father…”  
“My condolences, sire,” Cain says. His jaw is set and he’s staring down at the ground. “The king died valiantly on the fields of Gra.”  
It occurs to him that Cain likely feels turned upside-down as well. Cain, who was there to see Father’s-… ...Cain, who witnessed the unthinkable.  
“The traitors took the divine sword Falchion from him, and gave no quarter to those of our soldiers who remained…”  
He shudders at the imagery that springs to his mind. It’s no wonder Cain is so quiet.  
“I… I see. So they're all dead. Father, too…”  
“His last words were as follows:”  
He looks up, and sees Cain staring straight ahead, eyes not focused on anything truly before him.  
“”Tell my son that I leave the future of Altea and our continent in his hands. He must rise now where I have fallen. As Falchion’s rightful heir, he has been born into greatness.. Now… He must be great.”  
Silence falls over the group, and Cain looks down at the ground again. His message has been delivered.  
He blinks back tears, and leans into Jagen.  
“Father…” He mumbles, “I’ll try…”  
More silence, then Cain takes a deep breath, sounding pained.  
“Sire, I… I cannot bear this! Failing to protect His Majesty… Then leaving my brothers to die, slinking away like some coward… This indignity is too much to bear!” He looks both sad and angry, about to both burst into tears and tear something apart.  
“One day I will repay them in kind. I will avenge the fallen, I swear it!”  
Abel steps up beside Cain, placing a hand on his shoulder. Everyone has lost so much, in so little time…  
“Cain, you speak for us both,” he finally says. “When that day comes, we will punish them together.” He’s shaking, and Jagen puts an arm around him. “Gra, Doluna… All of them!”  
Jagen hums and steps forward, steering the conversation away for a while.  
“I agree, we must repay the injustice Gra has heaped upon us. But in the meantime, we must focus on the present… Perhaps we ought to visit the houses nearby. Lord Marth, your countrymen love you, and they may have knowledge that can serve us.”  
“...I dislike being the bearer of bad news, but I think we lack the time to visit and chat,” Frey says. “The enemy is up ahead.”  
Abel hisses again, grimacing.  
“Not all of Gra’s might harries the castle, it seems, “ Jagen says. “They’ve left soldiers here outside.”  
A good tactic, which also means less people are inside to harm Elice and Mother, but…  
“Elice will have no place to escape… Let’s seize that fort across the water. Perhaps we can quash the enemy reinforcements at their source.”  
Jagen takes a moment to survey the field, then nods.  
“An excellent idea, Lord Marth. Men, onward!”  
Frey and Abel are on their horses in a moment, but Cain… He steps away before Jagen can lift him back into the saddle.  
“Jagen, wait. I… I want to fight on foot.”  
“...Are you certain, Lord Marth?”  
“I’m certain. Cain and I will pick off enemies that you and the others leave behind.”  
Jagen nods, and motions to the others to follow as he rides off.  
“...Sire, at this point I’ll die of embarrassment before I die of any wounds,” Cain says. He smiles a little in apology.  
“You’re already hurt, Cain… I don't think you're fit for the front lines right now. This way, you and I can look out for each other.”  
“You don't sacrifice heart for logic, do you sire…” Cain sighs. “And that logic is sound. Still, allow me to protect you as much as I can!”  
“I trust you will, Cain.”  
“Well, now I have your trust on the line too... I won't betray it, sire!”  
He smiles, then turns to the task at hand.  
Jagen, Frey and Abel have met resistance on the bridge ahead, and though the enemy is quickly giving under the Altean knight’s determination, he can't imagine reinforcements would be unwanted.  
“Onward!” He shouts, just like Jagen did. Cain draws his sword and urges his horse forward, following close behind as he runs to catch up.  
...Cain sweeps him up though, and spurs his horse onwards, clearing the distance quickly. Despite himself, he giggles at the sudden speed, and he hears Cain chuckle.  
“Hey, Abel, save some for me!” Cain calls. Abel gives him a look, before hurling a javelin and knocking the last rider off their horse.  
“In that state? I’d sooner save a vulnerary for you to drink than an enemy for you to fight!”  
“It would be best to play it safe for now,” Jagen says, nodding along with Abel’s words. “We don't have any vulneraries or healers available at the moment, after all.”  
“I know, and His Highness and I are bringing up the rear anyways…”  
“Which is for the best,” Frey adds. “Gra’s might holds not only swords, lances, and axes, but tomes as well.”  
“Mages?” He questions, “We’ll need to be careful, then… They don't need to get as close to do us harm.”  
“Agreed, sire,” Frey says. “Proceed with caution.”  
“Caution, Cain,” Abel says. “Understood? You have Lord Marth to worry about, not just yourself!”  
“I know what I’m doing!” Cain protests. “I made it past Gra’s forces, all the way to the castle, on my own.”  
“Probably on dumb luck,” Abel counters.  
“We need luck just as much as we need skill,” Frey says. Both the younger knights sigh, and allow the argument to cease.  
“If I may,” Jagen begins, “We must move quickly, and not allow the enemy time to regroup. Prolonged battle with Gra’s mages could be disastrous to this group.”  
The other three knights nod.  
“Frey, Abel, go to the northeast. Cain, Lord Marth, with me.”  
Frey nods and Abel raises his spear in the air, then the two gallop away.  
He can't help but worry for them. What if something happens, and everyone is too far away to help? What if these mages are far stronger than just Frey and Abel can handle on their own? What if-  
“Yow!” He yelps, as he’s thrown back against Cain. ...They’re moving out, it seems.  
“Sorry, your Highness!” Cain flusters. He waves a hand to tell him it's fine.  
Up ahead, he sees the sunlight glint silver off of Jagen’s lance, and something else spark- it looks like lightning, but there isn't a cloud in the sky. It fizzles out as Jagen fells a mage, and he realizes it was magic.  
“Yeah!” Cain cheers, “Go sir Jagen!”  
Jagen barely spares a glance backwards, focused on the enemy ahead. Cain sighs and looks around, focusing on the battlefield instead of shouting at Jagen.  
“Hey, look, Your Highness! Frey and Abel are back already!”  
He looks where Cain is pointing, and sees blue and green. Cain waves, and the one in green waves back.  
“I know you’re worried, sire, but we Altean knights know how to handle ourselves,” Cain says. “We won't let you down!”  
He sighs, and turns to say something, when another light catches his eye, over to the left. It's big and bright, and he wonders what it is. It reminds him of the one time a messenger was warped back from Khadein, where Elice had studied for a spell.  
The light fades into a figure- but he sees fire. Why is there fire? Is- is that one of their men, sent as some cruel--  
“Cain!”  
He hears Frey shout, but doesn't have time to turn and see, because Cain throws his arms around him and twists, moments before he feels heat like that of a bonfire, and something slams into him and Cain.  
The next impact is against the ground, and he’s pulled upright just in time to see a javelin leave Abel’s hand.  
It was a mage, he realizes. And magic fire, that hit him-- should have hit him, but Cain-  
Oh, _Cain._  
Abel is already there, helping Cain up.  
“You- you idiot! I said be careful, and instead you go and…” Abel sounds upset, but Cain laughs and waves him off.  
“Hey, hey, I was being careful!” Cain protests. “And Lord Marth is unharmed, so I’d say I'm doing my job!”  
Abel groans, and hauls Cain up, back on his feet.  
“You’re going to die, if you keep this up,” Abel grumbles. Cain claps him on the shoulder, then climbs back into the saddle.  
He notes how well-behaved and calm Cain’s horse is. Even after that, he can just get back on and ride again.  
Speaking of riding, Abel lifts him up with a grunt of effort, handing him up to Frey.  
“Any more attacks like that, and you’re out, Cain. Let’s let someone else guard him.”  
Cain sputters and shouts in protest, but Frey just ignores the two, flicking the reins and trotting away to meet Jagen, who is riding to meet them.  
“Peace, Jagen! Lord Marth is unharmed!” Frey calls. Jagen pulls at the reins of his horse and nods.  
The keep is just up ahead.  
“Frey, let me down please,” he requests. “I’m of no use on the saddle of someone else’s horse, and I have my rapier.”  
“Once we reach the keeps’ doors, sire,” Frey replies. He nods, and waits.  
“...Still think you should stay back,” Abel is saying. He’s over to the right, but his voice is loud enough to carry. “You’ve taken a beating from Gra’s forces.”  
“Which is exactly why I should beat them back!” Cain declares. “I’m ready for the front lines!”  
“That’s all the lines there are, here.” Frey points out. “But we don't want any more Altean casualties today. Try not to take unnecessary risks.”  
Abel stares at Cain.  
“Hear that? _No unnecessary risks_.”  
“All my risks today have been necessary!”  
“Well, usually, they're not.”  
“Ok, I’ll give you that one, not _all_ my risks are necessary. But now, the enemy took a risk- they left themselves open to the Bull!” Cain whoops and punches the air, only to wince and press a hand to his side. Abel sighs, but he can see worry in the knight’s expression.  
“Seriously. Be careful. You're hurt and we haven't had time to do anything about it.”  
“I haven't bled to death yet.”  
“ _Yet._ ”  
Frey sighs, and clicks his tongue, signaling his horse to stop.  
“Sir Jagen?” He asks, “What is our plan?”  
“We go in on foot,” Jagen replies. “The hallways are too narrow for much else, with Gra’s soldiers inside.”  
Frey nods, and dismounts, then holds out a hand. He lets Frey help him down.  
“On my mark,” Jagen commands. Abel hefts his lance, and Cain stomps his feet, driving his heels into the dirt like a bull about to charge.  
He draws his rapier and adjusts his grip, while Jagen reaches for the door.  
“Now!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cain? One of my favorites? It's more likely than you think.


	4. (Not) His to Hazard

He sighs, sheathing his sword and looking around.  
“There… That ought to do for the enemy reinforcements around here…”  
He’s tired and sore, but at least Elice won't be captured while trying to flee.  
“Lord Marth,” someone says.  
He jumps, and whirls around. That voice isn't one of the knights, so who- oh.  
“Malledus!” He exclaims. If he's here, then…  
She- she isn't. Elice isn't there beside Malledus, Elice isn't there to sweep him up in a warm hug, and he’s scared to learn why.  
“Why aren't you with my sister?” He asks. “Did you leave her someplace safe?”  
“...Princess Elice will not be joining us,” Malledus says. “She has elected to stay at the castle.”  
The castle? The castle- the castle, where Gra is invading, where the soldiers in red had tried to kill him-  
_Elice is still in the castle, without anyone to protect her._  
He isn't sure what exactly he’s going to do, but he takes off for the entrance of the keep.  
“Hold, sire!” Malledus steps in his way, and he recoils. It’s the same tone Father uses when he’s acting foolishly. “Where are you going?”  
This isn't Father, though.  
“Where do you think?!” He shouts, and shoulders past Malledus-  
“Stop!”  
Malledus grabs him by the shoulders and jerks him backwards.  
“Sire, consider for a moment why the princess would go so far as to lie to you to ensure your safety.”  
He doesn't want to, he doesn't want to, Elice is at the castle and in danger--  
Malledus shakes him, and he tries to twist away, but Malledus is loud and like Father— commanding and knows best even, when he's being stupid.  
“Your sister knows you are the future of Altea- nay, the whole land!”  
He’s shaking and he wants it all to stop, but the memory shoves itself back in his mind.  
_...I leave the future of Altea and our continent in his hands._  
It’s Cain’s voice but Father’s words, and for all the fear Father brought, Father was wise. The words are wise, and he stops to think, and the realization hits him like a wyvern just barreled into his chest. The future. The future of Altea, Father had said.  
“I… I’m… Our future…” He mumbles, echoing Father’s words.  
“Sire…” He looks up, hoping for any sort of direction, but Malledus’ tone is still stern like Father’s. “You must live. Drink deeply of these injustices; sup on these slights they serve. Remember them! One day, you will lead us back here to avenge the fallen and reclaim Altea in their names!”  
Avenge- and reclaim- like a king. Like a great king, leading his people to drive out their oppressors.  
He’s thirteen and they need a king.  
“...Then… It… it seems my life is… no longer mine to hazard.”  
He lacks the energy to be loud, to be upset. All that comes to him is the cold logic Malledus is speaking.  
“In your veins flows the blood of a hero- the blood of the great hero Anri. You are a son of House Archenea, and sole heir of Falchion— our sole hope of defeating Medeus, emperor of Doluna.”  
Malledus’s voice softens, and he sounds less like Father.  
“Sire, wer’t in my power, I would have you choose your own path… But I’m afraid your path has chosen you.”  
He lacks the words to reply.  
“Sire?”  
He turns, and sees Jagen standing there.  
“Jagen,” he says. “Jagen, Elice is… Elice… Isn't here. She stayed- she stayed at the castle.”  
Jagen is silent, for a while, and he hears whispers start up- Cain and Abel.  
_“What?! Why would she-”_  
_“A surrender, to save as many lives as possible. It’s smart, when it comes to damage control… But I wish she had come with us.”_  
“...I see,” Jagen finally says. “Then we must be off at once.”  
“To where?” He asks.  
“Away. Out of Altea. We will take a boat to Talys, a neighboring kingdom. Do you remember princess Caeda?”  
He shakes his head, but Cain nods.  
“As a member of His Majesty’s personal guard, I visited Talys with him… Before we left for Gra.” Cain pauses, and the darkness that passes over the knight’s expression worries him for a moment, until Cain moves on. “The king lent us a few soldiers. They have pegasus knights there- and they're _fast_. I sparred with one of the members of the guard in Talys, and she just about had me beat! But, of course, no one bests the Bull!”  
Cain whoops and punches the air, but then suddenly pitches forward, and stumbles to catch himself.  
“Cain! Be careful!” He cries.  
“I’ve been careful, sire!” Cain responds. He’s pale as a sheet and seems borderline out of breath. “I’m… ...I’m…”  
He watches in horror as Cain crumples to the ground, falling like a puppet whose strings have been cut.  
Abel cries out, and rushes to his brother’s side.  
“Cain! Cain, come on you idiot, get up!”  
Malledus frowns and walks over.  
“Didn't you have a vulnerary, Abel?”  
Abel looks up, then back down.  
“...I- I gave it to another knight, sir. He was wounded, and… I figured he needed it more than Frey or me.”  
“It was for a situation like this, when one of you was wounded, that Elice gave you that,” Malledus scolds.  
...Abel looks as if about to cry, so he speaks up.  
“He did what- what he thought was the right thing, and we can't change it if we- if we wanted to. Isn't- isn't there anything else we can do?”  
Malledus sighs, and reaches into the bag slung over his shoulder, pulling out a vulnerary, which he hands to Abel.  
“Don't use this one without thinking,” he orders. Abel nods.  
“Yes, sir. Th-thank you.”  
Malledus turns away, while Abel gives one last shot at waking Cain by shaking him. Cain groans quietly, and opens his eyes, looking confused and tired.  
“Wh… what did I miss?” Cain asks.  
“Just you _not_ being _careful_ , I guess,” Abel snaps. “You passed out.”  
“Oh. ...Haven’t bled to _death_ yet, though, so in my books I'm doing alright.”  
Abel huffs, and shoves the vulnerary into Cain’s hands.  
“Malledus gave me this. So, keep up the whole not bleeding to death, got it?”  
Cain grins, and gives a sloppy salute.  
“I aim to please!”  
Abel sighs, and helps Cain sit up.  
“You need to improve your aim.”  
Cain laughs, and Abel rolls his eyes.  
...He can't bring himself to find humor in their banter now, though. Not when he knows Elice won't be here to join in the laughter.


	5. The Prince, the Bull, and the Panther

They ride until the sun is low in the sky, but this time he doesn't fall asleep, even though he’s tired. His mind is still awhirl with thoughts, after all, and with Malledus- mounted on a white stallion- breaking up each little argument between Cain and Abel with that stern, almost-like-Father tone, he can't relax anyways.  
“I believe we should stop for the night,” Jagen says. “We need to rest.”  
“Some of us more than others,” Abel adds. Cain makes an indignant noise.  
“I know who you're talking about… And the vulnerary stopped the bleeding, so the Bull is back in action!”  
“Until you pass out again.”  
“That was once!”  
“Actually, three times now. I'm considering making you ride with Frey so you don't fall off.”  
“I haven't fallen off!”  
“You would have, if I hadn't caught you… “  
“That’s ridiculous. I’m ready to go! Open the gates and let me loose!”  
Cain punches at the air, but then sways, grabbing ahold of the saddle horn.  
“...Nng, give me a moment first though…”  
Abel sighs, and rides a little closer.  
“If you keep getting worked up, you're just going to pass out again. You have to rest before you can run around shouting like a child.”  
“Like- like a child? I’m not! I'm twenty, just like you are!”  
“Of course we're the same age. We’re twins, you doof!”  
Malledus opens his mouth to speak, but Frey cuts him off.  
“Men, please. We’re all tired, and tensions are running high, but you can compose yourselves better than this…”  
“...Right. Sorry sir.”  
Abel looks straight ahead, and Cain slumps forward in his saddle some.  
“...As I was saying,” Jagen says, “We need to stop for the night. We can set up camp in the trees to our left.”  
“I’ll help collect the firewood!” Cain says.  
“You should probably just… Help clear the site in general. I don't trust you with any sort of sharp objects we might be using.”  
“What- sheesh, Abel, for the Panther you sure seem a lot more like a mother housecat!”  
“That makes you the kitten, who is a second’s worth of shouting and quick movements away from fainting.”  
“I’m not going to-!”  
Cain once again sways in his saddle, and Abel manages to be both worried and smug at the same time.  
“Told you…”  
“Just wait until I have a little time to recover. Then I’ll be back to my proper self!”  
“Time to recove- Cain, that's what I've been _telling_ you! You need time to rest, or you're going to pass out again!”  
Now Cain goes silent, and Abel growls.  
“You’re honestly impossible everywhere but on the battlefield. So dense.”  
Frey clears his throat, and an uneasy peace falls over the brothers again.  
“...I’ll help clear the site for the fire,” Abel finally says.  
Everyone stops, and Jagen sets him on the ground.  
“Is there a way I can help?” He asks. Jagen hums.  
“You can help gather firewood. We lack the tools to cut proper wood, so we will collect what we can find.”  
He nods, and looks around.  
“Frey, you will come with me. Cain, either help Abel with the campsite, or Malledus with the horses.”  
Cain grumbles, but slides off his horse.  
“...I’ll help with the horses.”  
“Thank you, Cain.”  
Jagen starts walking, so he follows along.  
“Now, Lord Marth,” Jagen says, “When gathering firewood, there are a few things you want to look for; tinder, small sticks that will easily catch from the tinder, and large logs that will burn for a while. We may not have an axe, to cut proper sized logs, but large branches will work… They must not be green, or wet, though, for both cause smoke.”  
He nods as Jagen speaks, and looks around.  
“What about over there?” He asks, and points to a large branch.  
“Excellent eye, Sire. We will break this one into smaller pieces, and use it for the larger logs in our fire.”  
“Now… um, tinder. To start the fire. ...Does anyone have a flintstone?”  
“I believe sir Malledus has one.”  
Malledus… He’s glad that they have Malledus’s aide, but he wishes that he was with Elice- or better yet, that Elice was here.  
“I see,” he says. “...Will we have to hunt? No one brought provisions…”  
“We will, sire. You will not be expected to join, if you wish not to.”  
He thinks back to the last time he held a bow, and shakes his head.  
“I’ll stay behind. Thank you, Jagen.”  
“Of course Sire.”  
Silence falls, until he steps on an old, dried-out bush. The leaves crackle and twigs crunch under his foot, and he recoils at the noise.  
“Sorry,” he mumbles. Jagen shakes his head.  
“Your accident has discovered tinder for our fire, sire. Do not apologize.”  
He steps back, and lets Jagen gather up a bundle of sticks and leaves.  
“I will send Frey to bring back the larger branch you had found, sire,” Jagen explains. “Now, we ought to see how the campsite is coming along.”  
He nods, and follows Jagen.  
...Cain and Abel are bickering once again, and he follows their voices to the camp, walking ahead of Jagen.  
“You’ve been reckless enough- don’t go climbing trees for show!”  
“You said I couldn't! It was a challenge!”  
“No, it wasn't, it was statement of- _Cain, get down from there! No, do NOT-_ ugh, that’s it!”  
He looks past a tree, to see Abel, arms wrapped around Cain’s waist and attempting to pull the knight in red away from the tree branch he’s holding on to.  
“Let go!”  
“ _You_ let go!”  
“You'll drop me!”  
“No, I won't! Now let. Go!”  
With a roar of effort, Abel jerks Cain away from the tree, stumbling backwards to catch his balance. Cain shouts in indignation.  
“Wh- _Abel!_ Put me down!”  
“Sure, _now_ you want your feet on the ground,” Abel grunts. He sets Cain down, though, and both take a moment to catch their breath.  
“Are you done fighting yet?” Frey asks. Both of the younger knights start.  
“If Cain is, then yes sir,” Abel replies. Cain sticks his tongue out at Abel.  
“Good. I could use a hand with the tree branch Lord Marth found.”  
Cain bounds over to Frey, ignoring Abel’s cry of protest.  
“Count on me, sir! I’ll help!” Cain says.  
“...If you pass out, I won't expect sir Frey to carry you,” Abel says.  
“I _won’t_ pass out!” Cain shouts back.  
“You said that before each other time you’ve passed out, doofus!”  
Cain doesn't reply again, and Abel sighs, face scrunching up in worry.  
“He’s still standing after everything, so I think he’ll be fine,” he says, stepping out in the cleared campsite.  
“Sire!” Abel exclaims. “I- didn't know you were there…”  
“My bad. I didn't mean to surprise you.”  
“Don't apologize, sire! You’re not in the wrong.”  
He goes silent for a moment, then changes the topic.  
“Is there anything else I can help with here?”  
“All that’s left is to start the fire, and sirs Jagen and Malledus will take care of that. I suggest you rest, sire. It’s… Been a long day.”  
He studies Abel’s face, and sees shadows that weren't there only yesterday.  
“...It’s been a long day for us all,” he says. “I’ll be glad when we all have a chance to rest, but I won't until everyone else can.”  
“Sire-...” Abel sighs. “...It’s good Cain hasn't been around to influence you recently…”  
He hums, and pulls his cape around himself. It’s beginning to get cold, as the sky gets darker.  
Jagen and Malledus are conversing, as they start the fire, and he casually listens to the low back and forth of their voices. This much feels familiar, at least.  
Cain is dragging a log up to the fire, and it seems very heavy, for him to be moving on his own…  
“Cain, what are you doing?” Abel chides, “We don't have an axe to cut that up…”  
“It’s not to cut up,” Cain retorts, “It’s to sit on! Do you want to sit on the ground?”  
“We’ll be sleeping on the ground,” Abel points out. Cain ignores him and keeps pulling the log, when his grip slips, and he falls backwards. Abel hisses and runs over to help him up.  
“If it will get you to actually sit and rest, I guess the log is worth it…”  
Cain doesn't respond this time, just goes back to moving the log with more determination… But he does smile when Abel moves to help him.  
The tinder is crackling, and little flames lick the twigs, catching those on fire as well.  
He watches as the fire grows, eventually engulfing the larger logs.  
“Jagen?” Malledus calls. “May I have a word with you?”  
“Of course,” Jagen replies, and stands up, walking over to speak with Malledus.  
...Now he isn't quite sure what to do with himself, so he walks over and sits on the log, beside Cain and Abel.  
“...How are your wounds, Cain?” He asks. He knows he’s asked multiple times at this point, but he still can't help but worry when Cain is still so pale…  
“I’ll heal,” Cain says. “I’m flattered that you’re concerned for me, sire, but you’re bordering on mothering.”  
He flushes, and Abel elbows Cain, who winces.  
“Ow! What was that for?”  
“You can't just talk like that to our liege!” Abel scolds.  
“Alright, alright, but you don't need to jab me like that…”  
“Well-” Abel begins, then falls silent. “...You’re… right. Sorry.”  
“It’s alright.”  
An uncomfortable silence falls, and a log shifts, sending up embers into the darkening night.  
“...How did you even manage to get to Altea, from Gra?” Abel asks. Cain becomes unpleasantly quiet and still for a moment.  
“I fled,” Cain replies. “I ran away when we were betrayed, and… I stole a rowboat.”  
“But those wounds are fresh,” he says. “Was… Did it all happen… so quickly?”  
“No, these-” Cain motions to his side- “These are from the scouts that I was caught by, on my way to Altea Castle.”  
“You were reckless, as usual…” Abel says. The words lack his usual biting tone.  
Cain laughs, softly.  
“Yeah. I was reckless… I wasn't valiant like the soldiers who fell in Gra, I just ran away.”  
He doesn't know what to say… Cain shifts, leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees.  
“...Seth… Seth was valiant. He stood by King Cornelius’s side for as long as he could. You should have seen him… He looked every bit a hero. But...”  
Cain’s voice is quiet, and begins to tremble more with every breath he takes.  
“...He’s probably not even going to get a proper burial like he deserves.”  
He sits there quietly as Cain puts a hand over his eyes, taking deep but shaking breaths.  
“...I… I see we both lost siblings because of Gra,” he finally says. “I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t apologize,” Cain says. “It’s not your fault… it’s all Gra and Doluna.”  
“But still… Maybe, if I had known, I could have at least saved someone at the castle… Maybe I could have convinced Elice to come with us.”  
“You did your best, sire,” Abel says. “That’s all anyone can ask.”  
“But-!” The anger at the pain that’s been caused boils in his chest, and bubbles up to his throat. “It’s- it isn't _fair!_ We didn't- we didn't _do_ anything to them, we were _allies!_ ” He’s shaking, and can't catch his breath. “We were allies, and they turned on us, and Elice- oh Elice, why did you have to stay?”  
He curls in on himself, trying in vain to wipe the tears from his eyes.  
He misses his sister, he wants her here, he wants things to go back to how they were, before even the war started. He wants to just laugh with Elice and only worry about horseback riding. He wants to be able to walk down to the training yard and hear Cain laughing loudly as he banters with the other knights, he wants to be able to spar with Jagen, he just wants his sister here…  
Someone puts an arm around his shoulders and he’s pressed against armor. He looks up to find that it’s Cain, with silent tears rolling down his cheeks, that has pulled him close.  
He lost everything this morning, and he already misses it so much it’s unbearably painful.  
Abel squishes in against them, putting his arms around him and Cain, and none of them need to say anything to understand what the others are feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that while Marth lost so much when Gra betrayed Altea, Cain was there to see his king fall in battle, and is, as far as we know, the only living soul who heard Cornelius's last words in person.


	6. An Ambush

“Sire? Sire, it’s time to get up…”  
One of the knights- it sounds like Abel- is shaking him, trying to wake him up, but he doesn't want to. He wants to just sleep, and maybe he’ll dream about being home and safe with Elice, maybe he’ll sleep soundly instead of waking up due to nightmares.  
“Sire…”  
He has to get up, though. He wants to sleep until everything goes away, but his knights need him to be awake.  
He sits up and stretches, yawning.  
“Good morning, sire!” Abel says. “Did you sleep well?”  
He hums, and gives no real answer. Does not having to wake Jagen up count as better? Or does waking up from a nightmare mean he slept poorly as usual?  
“Are we moving again?” He asks. Abel nods.  
“The enemy has gradually relaxed on their patrols and searches. We’re leaving today, sire, so gather your things.”  
He nods and stands, brushing dirt off his tunic. It's a bit futile, he’s generally filthy given his last chance to bathe was in a stream, four days ago, but he tries to knock off as much dust as possible.  
Jagen and Malledus are talking, as usual. They both are practically tacticians, and he's glad he doesn't have to lead this group alone.  
Over to his right, laughter sounds. Frey seems to have told Cain a joke. ...One good thing about this prolonged hiding and waiting is that Cain has had time to recover, he supposes.  
Nothing else is good about this, though. They're in hiding and fleeing from the enemy, and each day leads them further and further from Altea Castle. Further and further from Elice.  
...He thought the pain would lessen, but the more time he spends without his sister, the more it tears his heart into shreds.  
He misses Elice, and hopes desperately that she's unharmed.  
“...Sire! Sire, are you listening?!”  
He starts, and turns. It’s Malledus, who looks irked.  
“Huh? O-oh, Malledus,” he says. Malledus sighs.  
“Get ahold of yourself, sire!” Malledus scolds, and he can't help but flinch. “I know how you grieve, but the Gra host that pursues us will not be interested. We must keep moving, and with all haste at that.”  
“I know, I… I’m sorry. These thoughts are hard to put aside,” he says. Malledus frowns, and makes no comment.  
“From here, we will cross out of Altea and begin our escape to Talys. I trust you are prepared?”  
“Talys… I’ve heard the name. An island kingdom to the east, isn't it?”  
“That is correct. The king there was a good friend to your father- and perhaps, more importantly, a true friend.”  
He had at one point thought king Jiol was a friend to Father, as well. But certainly not a true one now. That much was clear. Hopefully Talys will be different.  
“It was Princess Elice’s wish that you seek refuge there, should anything go awry,” Malledus explains.  
“Me, but not her…”  
Malledus gives him a look, and he tries to arrest that train of thought, shoving it aside.  
“I've arranged for a boat to take us from the northeast shore,” Malledus says.  
“Draug and Gordin went ahead to prepare it,” Jagen adds. Will Draug and Gordin be accompanying them? He hopes so.  
“But to get there,” Malledus continues, a sharp edge to his tone, “we’ll first need to cut through a prison to the north. I managed to come by a key to the premises. Allow me to transfer it to you.”  
Malledus reaches into the bag he always seems to be carrying around, and pulls out a large iron key. It looks old, and it’s heavy in his hands.  
“Now, we must be off. We have no time to waste.”  
“We wouldn’t dream of wasting time, sir Malledus,” Abel says. “Cain! You better be ready, because we aren't waiting for you to dawdle.”  
“ _Dawdle?_ Which one of us takes longer to get ready in the morning?” Cain counters. “I know it's not me.”  
“You also forget to shave, or even brush your hair some mornings, so I don't think your point stands.”  
“But I'm also never late for anything!”  
Abel opens his mouth to retort, but shuts it when Frey coughs, loudly.  
“Sorry,” Frey says. “Had a bit of a tickle in the back of my throat. Don't let me interrupt you two.”  
Cain goes red, and Abel huffs, walking over to his horse.  
“I take it everyone is prepared?” Jagen asks.  
“Ready for action, sir!” Cain replies.  
“Excellent,” Jagen replies. He steps over and allows Jagen to lift him up into the saddle, then scoots forward so Jagen can also climb up.  
“Onward!” Malledus commands, and Jagen nods, clicking his tongue. His horse starts off, and the others fall in line behind.  
...As he thinks about horses, he realizes that if nothing had happened, he would probably have learned the basics in horse riding yesterday.  
It's a little odd, to think now he’s fourteen. He doesn't feel any different. There's no new strength or courage or wisdom that comes along with being fourteen. He feels just as lost and small as before- in fact, being older makes it worse.  
“Sire,” Jagen says, pulling him from his thoughts, “We will encounter many enemies, in our coming travels and battles. However, you may notice some do not seem eager to battle for the enemy… I would recommend to watch for these people, and attempt to use words to turn them to our side before you resort to your blade.”  
He nods. He knows _he_ wouldn't want to fight for Gra…  
“I understand. Thank you, Jagen.”  
“Naturally, sire,” Jagen responds. He can hear the slight smile in the old knight’s voice, warm and gentle.  
Maybe Elice has some secret allies in the castle, too…  
For now, he can lean back against Jagen and let his mind wander.

“Sire? Sire, we need you to be focused now.”  
He jolts, and looks around. He’s still riding with Jagen, but the scenery has changed. A river, nearby, and before them looms the prison. ...He can see the enemy’s red armor, soldiers guarding the way to the shore.  
“...My apologies. I was… Distracted,” he says. “Are we prepared for combat?”  
“I believe so.”  
“As long as there aren't any mages around, given His Highness and Cain’s last experience with them,” Abel comments. He can tell this needles Cain, but Cain gives no reply.  
“The worst of the lot seems to be an archer, so I think we’re in little danger of magical attacks,” Frey says. “I think there are enemies beyond the river, though, so we need to exercise caution- Abel, refrain from your lectures, just for now, thank you.”  
Abel looks away, caught right before he was about to repeat the order about caution to Cain. It's a little amusing, how predictable it is, and how well Frey knows the pattern.  
“Thank you, Frey,” Jagen says. “Your advice is duly noted.”  
Jagen helps him down from the saddle, and he draws his rapier. He knows he can't keep up with the cavaliers, but he wants to be ready to fight anyways.  
“Ready, men?”  
“Ready, sir!” Abel calls. Cain raises his sword and whoops in agreement.  
“Knights of Altea, to arms!”  
This is the first battle he’s been in since he turned fourteen, and he’s still not on the front lines with his men...  
Father would be disappointed in him.  
Someone shouts, and he jumps. He was zoning out in battle, that’s bad, what happened--  
It's Cain, who shouted. A battle cry. ...It’s a little frightening, but at least he’s focused again, and now he realizes how far behind he is.

As usual, he catches up just when the fighting is over. Jagen is waiting for him, by the doors of the prison.  
“Sire,” Jagens calls, “We need the key to open the door.”  
“Why can't we just break it down, again?” Cain asks.  
“It’s enchanted!” Abel explains. “It’s so you can't just unlock the doors and let people out that shouldn't be out. We can't break it down with our ordinary weapons.”  
“But if we had _un_ ordinary weapons, we could?”  
“Sure, but last I checked, we don't have Archenea’s Regalia, or Falchion!”  
Something flashes through Cain’s expression at the mention of Falchion, and Abel recoils.  
“...Sorry.”  
“No worries, you’re right, we don't have any divine weapons. But c’mon- give me an axe, and I’ll bet I wouldn't _need_ a divine weapon! Nothing can stop the Bull when he charges!”  
Abel scoffs and rolls his eyes, and Frey chuckles.  
“There is no need for any of that,” Malledus snaps. “We have a key.”  
“I know,” Cain replies. “But if we didn't? I could handle it!”  
“Your enthusiasm is appreciated, Cain, but unneeded,” Jagen says. “Sire, if you will?”  
“Oh, of course,” he says, and jogs over to Jagen, pulling the key from his pocket and putting it in the lock. He turns it, and the doors unlock with a loud ‘ker-chak.’  
Behind the door, he expects to see empty stone, but instead there’s the rusty red of a Gra soldier’s armor, and he recoils, stumbling backward and crying out.  
“Yow! It's an enemy ambush!”  
He sees the person’s eyes widen, and they recoil as well as Jagen hefts his lance. ...Something feels off what is off they have green hair who from Gra has green hair who from Gra trying to ambush them would look so scared---  
“J-Jagen, wait!” He shouts. “Stop!”  
Jagen pauses, mid-strike, and the other person falls backwards onto their rear.  
“He’s- he's not-” -he has to catch his breath, so that his heartbeat can stop hammering in his ears. “...He’s… Not the enemy. Who- who are you?”  
The person stares back at him, with wide eyes, and makes a muffled noise. ...He realizes they have a gag in their mouth, and cautiously approaches them.  
“You… um, h-here, let me get that for you.”  
Their face is very dirty, and their green hair messy and uncombed, both in stark contrast to their clean uniform. They- they look familiar, but he can't think clearly enough to think why as he unties the knot the gag is in with shaking hands.  
The person takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh, right as it clicks in his brain who it is.  
“I know you!” He exclaims. “You- you're one of our archers! G- G…”  
“Gordin, sire!”  
Yes, that was it. He’s beginning to feel bad for forgetting, given how often he typically sees Gordin- and Draug, together, around Altea Castle. Gordin and Draug went ahead to prepare the boat, though…  
“If- if you don't mind, sire? My hands are still tied…”  
“Oh, of course!”  
He helps Gordin up, then unties the knot keeping his hands bound. Gordin rubs his wrists, then shakes his arms out.  
“Thank you, sire!” Gordin chirps. “Sorry to scare you. The enemy captured me, and left me in this…” Gordin’s expression twists as he motions to his outfit. “...Mortifying state.”  
“I see,” he says. “Well, I’m glad you’re not hurt badly… But I'm afraid we cannot stay here a moment longer. Stay behind me, and-”  
“I can fight, sire!” Gordin cuts in. “If you have a bow I could use, I would be honored to fight by your side.”  
“A bow? ...I’m not sure…”  
He steps back outside, with Gordin behind him.  
“Um… Everyone, we have another knight with us now. Gordin, the archer. ...Jagen, do we have any bows…?”  
“No, sire. All our weapons are swords and lances.”  
“...There was an archer here, maybe we could take his bow,” Abel offers. “He won't need it.”  
“As long as it's not damaged, I’ll try it,” Gordin says.  
He hums and looks around, when the sunlight catches on something in the distance, drawing his eye.  
...Lances? Silver metal, and other metal- armor. Enemies? Allies? No, it- it wouldn't be allies, would it…  
“Look there!” He cries. He hears Malledus gasp, and his heart drops to his stomach.  
“No…” Malledus utters, “Anri save us... Of all the places to be beset!”  
“What- what is it, Malledus?” He asks. His heart is frantically beating against the inside of his chest, and he’s fairly certain that if it goes much faster it will bruise him.  
“Sire, that is Gra’s main force- and they are accompanied by the knights of Grust’s Sable Order. Our chances of routing them are slim, I’m afraid…” -he’s afraid too, honestly- “And our chances of slipping away undetected afterwards all but nil.”  
“Then- we’ve- we’ve no hope?” He feels faint, and realizes it’s Jagen’s hand on his back, steadying him.  
“I…” Malledus, for once, is lacking in words and logic. “I can think of but one strategy…”  
“What is it?” Jagen asks.  
“We could leave a decoy behind, for when the enemy catches up.”  
“A d- dee-deek-coy?” He stutters. He can feel Father’s glare on him for his misspoken words, but no one here embodies Father’s disappointment.  
“It's you they're after, sire,” Malledus explains. “Were one of your men to stay behind disguised as you… Well, the enemy ought to take the bait. That would give you and the others time to escape.”  
He can't find words to use, so Malledus continues.  
“One of your men must make for the fortress on the southern highroad. He will act as a decoy by dressing as you and luring the enemy force away.”  
“B-but Malledus, how- how… How will he f-find his way bac-ck to us?”  
“Sire…” Malledus says, “He may not. You must part with one of your comrades. There is no other way.”  
No other-- no other way? No. No, he won't accept that.  
“...I- I. I’ll find a way!”  
He can't stop shaking, but he still turns to Jagen.  
“Jagen- we- we need to leave. Quick-quickly. If we- if we get through quickly enough, then they can't- they don't have a boat. Not- not like- like us. We’re ready. So if we hur-hurry, they can't- they can't catch up.”  
Jagen nods.  
“A sound plan, sire. We shall escape through the prison to the other side of the river, and make haste for the shore.”  
He nods, then remembers something.  
“We- we’ll need- the k-key. C-can someone…?”  
“Already have it, sire,” Abel says.  
He nods, and turns to the entrance of the prison again.  
“Th-then we should m-make… m-make… H-hurry-- haste. Make haste.”  
“We’re right behind you, sire!” Cain proclaims.  
With unsteady steps, he hurries into the prison.


	7. Dearly Departing

The door is locked.  
He expected this, at least. This isn't a point to panic.  
“Abel, the- the k-key, please?”  
“Yes, sire.”  
His hands are trembling still as he puts the key in the lock and turns it.  
There isn't a sound, like there was the last time. He frowns and turns the key the other way. It turns in the lock, but there still isn't a sound.  
“...Why… Why isn't it unlocking?” He asks. “Th-the key fits, and it turns, b-but…”  
“...There may be a second enchantment placed on this door, sire,” Malledus says. “Something done by the enemy, so that these doors may only be unlocked from the outside.”  
“What- is that possible?”  
“Yes. And likely, sire. ...The enemy will likely unlock the doors once they believe you are gone, though,” Malledus says. He knows what Malledus is implying and the fear shaking him begins bubbling up into rage.  
“I refuse!” He shouts. “You can't expect me to agree to- to abandoning one of our own to the hands of the enemy!” He slams his hands against the door, which only serves to make his palms sting but he doesn't care. “There has to be another way, and I will find it!”  
Just as quickly as it had come, the anger drains away and he’s left feeling defeated before the battle even has begun.  
“...Surely, there must be another way…”  
The room fills with silence, and he knows he’s failing. Father would know what to do. Father would be able to choose. Father could look at everyone and evaluate, Father could decide what must be sacrificed, for the sake of the others… But he hates himself for considering Malledus’s plan for even a moment. He won't. He _will not_ leave behind anyone else. He’s left too much behind already and his men have already sacrificed so much, he can't possibly ask of them any more.  
He realizes he’s been hearing footsteps, boots sounding against stone, and he turns.  
It’s just Cain, pacing in circles. ...He looks upset, and keeps glancing over at Malledus.  
Something is wrong. Very wrong.  
“W-wait, where’s… Frey? Frey!” He calls. His voice echoes off the walls, but he receives no response. He knows what must have just happened.  
“He’s- Frey is- we- q-quickly, we must head south and rescue him!”  
He tries to run, but once again Malledus steps in his way.  
“No, sire. We have to press on.”  
He's struck by the urge to shove Malledus aside, but he knows that anger won't help anyone. Anger was Father’s tactic. It won’t be his.  
“Press on?! Frey might be dying back there!”  
“If he is, then why would you be so selfish as to let him die in vain?”  
He hesitates. Selfish. He’s- he’s selfish. He’d be willing to put himself in harm, for one of his knights. _How is wanting to protect his people selfish? **Elice** wasn’t selfish when she stayed behind…_  
“Honor him,” Malledus says, “by allowing his life and his choice to mean something!”  
He doesn’t want to.  
“Frey…” He mumbles.  
He can’t save everyone.  
“...Alright. I will honor him,” he says. “...I will go.”  
He’ll abandon one of his knights so he can flee his country.  
Behind him, Cain and Abel are quietly talking. Cain sounds angry, but he can’t focus enough to understand what either of them are saying.  
...It’s not fair…  
Shouting sounds, from the other side of the door, and he recoils. The knights draw their swords- and Gordin grunts with effort as he pulls back the drawstring on his bow.  
“...Wow, this thing has quite a draw weight,” Gordin grumbles. Cain scoffs.  
“Gordin, pay attention,” Jagen scolds. “If the enemy opens the door, you must be prepared to shoot them down.”  
“Got it,” Gordin says. “Leave the first one to me!”  
“...We were _saying_ the first one is yours, Gordin,” Abel says. “Divines, you’re worse than Cain.”  
“I resent that,” Cain says.  
...There’s a beat of silence, where Frey is supposed to break up the argument. Frey doesn’t.  
“Please focus,” he says, in Frey’s place. It feels wrong. He can tell Cain and Abel feel the same way.  
The door rattles, with a loud ‘chack,’ and he cringes. How he wishes that he could have heard that sound sooner... Gordin takes a deep breath and aims at the door.  
The door slams open, and Gordin lets go of the bowstring, sending the arrow into the enemy’s breastplate. The soldier collapses without a word, and Gordin whoops.  
“Yeah! I hit him!”  
“...He was in a _doorway,_ " Abel snaps. “How hard would it be to hit someone framed by a doorway?”  
“I hit him, that’s what important!”  
“Whatever. Let’s go, we don’t have time for this!”  
Gordin tries to come up with a comeback, but Abel has already charged through the door.  
“Hey! Wait for me!” Gordin cries.  
Gordin is close on his heels as he runs out of the prison.  
This time, he’s not going to be useless.  
This time, when the enemy forces and his men clash, he’s there, ducking and weaving between swords and lances, and he thinks about the red on his hands and blade. This is a battle. This is war.  
This is death to the enemy, by his hands.  
This is…  
This is horrible.  
...He stops thinking about the red on his blade and focuses on protecting his remaining comrades. Gordin is helpless when an enemy charges him...  
He places himself right in front of Gordin, and lets nothing get past. Not even when an enemy pegasus knight comes swooping down does he give; he stands his ground until Gordin can pick them off with his bow.  
This repeats until the enemies stop coming, and he isn't sure how long that is, but now his arms ache, and his tunic is torn. He’s taken a few hits.  
...Gordin is unharmed, though.  
He can at least do one thing right.  
But, now he has time to consider the cost of how hard he’s fought. He’s filthy, his clothes are stained with _red,_ and the smell of blood is heavy in the air.  
It all hits him at once, the lives he’s just taken in the name of fleeing Altea and leaving his men and his sister behind, and he retches.  
“Sire!” Jagen shouts, and an arm slips around him, steadying him. He gratefully accepts the support as he gasps for breath, trying to fight down the bile still rising in the back of his throat.  
Someone is shouting. Cain? Abel? Malledus is shouting too. They're angry. They're angry at each other.  
No, it was Cain shouting, for now Abel’s voice raises as well. Why are they yelling? His head is spinning and he wants it to stop. He just wants everything to stop.  
“Sire,” Jagen whispers, “Please, compose yourself, just for a while longer… We’re nearly to the shore.”  
Nearly there. Nearly leaving Altea.  
He doesn't want to leave.  
But still, he tries to control his breathing- in through his nose, out through his mouth, like Elice had taught him. In, out. In, out.  
He’s still shaking and feels nauseous, but at least he can focus. Abel is scolding Cain for yelling at Malledus. Cain is silent. It feels wrong. Everything feels wrong.  
“Draug!” Gordin shouts, and he looks up.  
Unlike Gordin, Draug looks fairly clean, and he grins widely as Gordin runs up to him, sweeping the archer up in a bear hug.  
“Gordin!” Draug exclaims, “I’m so glad you're safe! When the enemy caught you, I figured I wouldn't see you again…”  
“Yep, me too,” Gordin chokes, voice stressed. “D-don’t squeeze so hard!”  
“Oh, sorry, sorry,” Draug says, setting Gordin down.  
“Draug,” Malledus says, stepping forward, “Is the boat ready?”  
“Ready to sail once everyone is aboard, sir!” Draug replies. “If I may, we must make haste. The enemy closes in on us from the east.”  
“Then let us go,” he says. He still has to lean on Jagen, but he knows they don't have time to stop.  
“Yes, sire,” Jagen says.  
“...By the way, Lord Marth, Sir Jagen…” Draug says, “We have one more to add to our member of Altean knights. Her name is Norne, and she’s an archer. I can vouch for her personally.”  
“Y-you believe she’s of good character?” He asks. Draug nods.  
“I swear on it, sire.”  
“That’s all we need, then… J-Jagen, where are out horses?”  
“Still inside the prison, sire. We went on foot due to the narrow openings of the prison,” Jagen says.  
“...We need them, don't we?”  
“Naturally, sire. The other knights and I will go retrieve them at once.”  
Jagen lets go of him, and he stays upright through willpower alone.

He doesn't want to leave, but within the next few minutes, they're on the dock, getting aboard the ship. There’s no arguments between Cain and Abel, and perhaps that's just as well. There isn't Frey to make peace between them: they're leaving Frey behind.  
Everyone just seems drained and resigned, and he wonders if some of their drive and energy was an act for his sake. He wouldn't put it past them.  
Jagen helps him onto the boat, and he just steps out of the way as best he can.  
He can see rusty red on the horizon as they set sail, but it does nothing to make him want to leave. It just reminds him even more what has been sacrificed for him to be here.  
He stares down at the waves and gives himself over to the thoughts that have refused to leave his mind. He think of Elice, and Frey, and of all the other people Altea has lost. Seth, the younger brother of Cain and Abel, maybe even Kace, the knight who delivered a message to him ten days before his birthday. All lost. He wants to hope Elice is alive, but the enemy seems far from merciful.  
He sees something move in the corner of his vision, and turns his head to see it better. It’s Jagen.  
“Look, sire,” Jagen says. “See how Altea shrinks on the horizon...”  
Altea. The land he’s abandoning to the enemy. One man wasn't enough, now he has to do it to his entire country. The words dance in his head, but he can barely shape them.  
“...aven…”  
“Pardon, sire?” Jagen asks, leaning in to hear. He takes a deep breath, and says it properly.  
“I am a craven. Powerless to save my sister; to staunch my kingdom’s wounds, to ease my people’s fears… I can do nothing but flee.”  
“This…” Jagen begins, but hesitates. “...This was your only recourse, sire. Surely, one day, you will be able to set things right.”  
His words are hollow-- everything is hollow, and everything is wrong, and he can do nothing to fix it.  
“‘Surely?’” He echoes. “Why do words of such conviction smack of so much uncertainty when spoken?”  
He digs his dirty nails into the wood of the railing as he curls his hands into fists.  
“Not surely, Jagen,” he says. “Assuredly. Gra will pay for all their acts. ...But today, though, allow me to wallow in this pain, to feel every awful twist of it. Don’t try to shield me or distract me: I never want to forget.”  
“Sire…”  
He ignores Jagen and slams his fists on the wood, leaning out to call to a country that is in so much pain, a country whose wounds must lay open and untreated thanks to his weakness.  
“I will return, Altea!” He shouts. The wind carries his voice away, so he says it all the louder.  
“Your prince will return to you one day!”  
Please, please, Altea, survive until then. Survive until he’s strong enough to come back, bear the pain until he can come and bear it instead. Stay alive.  
He’ll come back one day, and right every wrong he has the power to correct.

Altea needs a king, and he’s only fourteen, but he’ll give them one.

He swears it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand that's the end of this fic! Thanks for reading!


End file.
